


Drunken Touches Are Sober Wishes

by shippingmyarmada



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drunken sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sadstuck, Sibling Incest, Very Dubious Consent, it doesn't go into details on the sex but its there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shippingmyarmada/pseuds/shippingmyarmada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you have a secret that may be destroying you. You are madly in love with your older brother, and sometimes when he gets drunk enough, you do unspeakable things. All you want is for him to return yor feelings. But he has to be drunk to touch you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Touches Are Sober Wishes

He has to be drunk to touch you.

He has to get so drunk that he can't remember anything but the guilt in the morning.

You love him.

Or maybe you're just obsessed.

All you really know is that the thought of loosing Bro makes your bones ache and your stomach churn. Your guilt overwhelms you sometimes (sometimes has been turning into constantly recently) and you just lie on your bed and hurt. Rose is getting worried about you, she says you have lost your "ironic Strider boy charm" and occasionally she complains that you hardly ever talk to her anymore. John has similar complaints, he just nags you for never being online anymore. Jade rarely even speaks to you. You've stopped logging into pesterchum almost entirely.

Rose calls you every week or so to make sure you're still breathing, but doesn't ask much more than that. She's finally caught on that you don't want to talk about it. She gives you encouraging advice and you only half pay attention, preferring the advice that the silence of your dark bedroom gives. Every time she tells you that she loves you and every time she hangs up before you get the energy to return her gesture of kindness. Every time you listen to the dial tone and whisper into the darkness that you're not okay. The darkness doesn't reply.

Sometimes (remember now, sometimes actually means always in your story) you stare at your ceiling and wonder if he is worth destroying yourself, and sometimes you answer your thoughts with a silent "Could you really live without him?" and you know that you would do anything to be with him. Sometimes, destroying yourself is worth that half-hour of ecstasy.

So you stare at the ceiling with all of the lights off and pretend you don't know how much time is passing.

He has to be drunk to touch you.

The first time it happened, you practically floated through school the next day. You had raced home early, skipping your last period (it was only study hall) because you wanted to be with him. When you got home, your stomach had dropped all the way back down to the bottom floor of the building.

You had walked into a disaster. A smashed whiskey bottle was strewn about the floor and there was blood splotched on the white carpet. Your breath had left you behind, you were shaking so hard that you were practically vibrating, any ounce of happiness had been abandoned at the door. You began your search for Bro, only to find him crouched in the bathroom, lightly smacking his head on the wall on the shower. His right hand was caked in dried blood. Streaks of crusty red-brown littered his golden hair. His white polo had blood smeared on it.

You had panicked and screamed his name. He blearily blinked at you, a flash of recognition on his face, before hitting his head extra hard. You scurried over to him and dragged his heavy, muscular body away fro the shower. You sat on the floor and gingerly placed his head in your lap. You gently removed his glasses, so the the shards of the shade that had smashed wouldn't hurt him.

"Was it real?" Bro had asked you, his voice was like a croaking frog, cracking in the middle of the sentence. You had never seen him so broken. It scared you more than what he had done physically. It broke your heart, that first morning after.

You knew he wouldn't remember what happened later, he was drunk and from the look of his forehead, he probably had a concussion, so you brushed his hair from his amber eyes and murmured a quiet, "No."

At least he looked happy when he passed out.

You had pulled his bloody shirt off and bandaged his wounded hand, and gently, so, so gently, cleaned the blood from his hair with a washcloth. When he had been fully clean, you dragged him to his bed and laid him on it as carefully as you could. Then you had kissed him, right on the lips, gently, as if you could make him love you back if you persuaded his unconscious mind with your mouth. He tasted of whiskey, blood, and melancholy.

For a week after that incident, you nursed him through his confusion with reassuring words and apple juice. As you suspected, he didn't remember anything that had happened.

He has to be drunk to touch you.

The second time it happened you cried when you came and were so embarrassed you avoided Bro for the rest of the week, even though he didn't have any clue of what had gone on.

You had known he was drunk when he came home and his footsteps were shuffles instead of silence. His feet fell heavier than his usual drunken shuffle, so you knew that you only had to wait a little while until you could go out. You waited until the clanking falls of his whiskey bottle on the coffee table to slow, then tool a deep breath and ventured out of your dark room.

He had been spread out on the couch, his long legs flung wide and his muscular arms draped over the back. The whiskey bottle sat abandoned on the table, sitting precariously on the edge. You just stared at him, drinking him in like an alcoholic drinking liquor after a long day, because God knows you couldn't dare to when he was sober. You pushed the whiskey bottle away from the ledge, tempted to take a swig of your own, but deciding against it, you had to be completely sober for this, and slid onto his lap as provocatively as your seventeen year old body would allow. His hands found your waist and fit there like they were made for the little indents in your sides.

When you finally worked up the courage, you pressed your lips against his, softly, as if he were a china doll and someone like you could break someone like him. He had returned your kiss with an open mouth. His whiskey laced tongue burned the small cuts in your cheeks, the ones you got from nervously chewing the flesh of your lips and inner cheeks. You kissed him harder, faster, better. He responded in kind.

You ground your hips against his and thanked God he didn't get whiskey dick. Soon enough you both had been hard and his kisses were still tasting of whiskey and hints of a smokey cigarette. You couldn't get enough.

You fished out his dick, stroking it to full attention, then sank down on it. You had prepped yourself before going out, but it was still extremely uncomfortable. You waited, trying to get used to the intrusion. His low groan brought you back to reality, and you moved up and down, because he was too drunk to do anything. So you just bounced on his lap, relishing in the fact that his fingertips would leave bruises on your hips.

When you were about to climax you looked at his face and through two pairs of shades, you saw his pain. It was sketched on his features in a way you had never witnessed before. then you were crying and coming at the same time and he came inside you. You pulled yourself off him and cried like you never had before. You had taken advantage of him while he was drunk. You were sick. So, so sick and twisted and disgusting and you didn't deserve to have him in any way, shape, or form.

He was hugging you then, soft and forgiving, while you sobbed into his shirt. It just made you feel worse, here you had just caused him pain and he was comforting you. You hated yourself.

Eventually he passed out, still holding you, and you scurried to the shower than back to your room.

He has to be drunk to touch you.

You continued to do it, every time he got so blatantly drunk that there was no way he would remember what you had done. He got drunk more and more. Tonight he has done it again.

You listen to his shuffling footsteps and the clanks of his bottle with your fingers up your butt. You always wish that it could be him that would do this part, but you know that he wouldn't be able to when he's this drunk. So you stretch yourself and your chest hurts because you want him to love you so bad. When you're ready, you leave your dark room (the light is so uncomfortable, it hurts your eyes and you don't want to ever see your reflection) and walk with out as normal a stride as you could after what you had just done. Bro is sprawled out in his usual manner. The ache in your chest worsens. You place yourself on his lap as what is now usual, and while you're leaning in for your kiss you notice how he doesn't look so drunk. How his mouth is a tight line when you kiss it instead parted and slack. How he isn't nearly as flushed.

You panic when he doesn't respond to your kiss. You try again, harder, more insistent. He shoves you off his lap. You stumble into the coffee table, and notice that his whiskey bottle is full and the seal isn't broken. He's not drunk. He was faking, and you have no idea why. Well, actually, you have a pretty good idea why.

If you were to tape this moment and look back on it in the future, you'd be able to pick out the exact point where you lost him. Where you loose him as everything, a brother, a lover, the chances of him being anything that you want him to be are completely shattered. You think your soul shatters with those chances.

"It was real." Is all he says before flash stepping out of the living room.

You lay on the floor, unwanted tears spilling from your eyes. You can still see the shadow of the bloodstain that wouldn't come out. As you lie there, you think about how your world has broken. Sure, you're just a melodramatic teen who think the worst out of every situation, but you have really fucked this one up. Your body aches and your head pounds. You wish Bro would come comfort you, but you know that those days are over.

He will probably never look at you again, let alone touch you. You think about how you'll miss the strifing sessions on the roof and eating pizza on the couch with him while watching shitty cartoons late into the night. How you'll miss the looks he gives you when you talk about John or Rose or Jade. How you'll especially miss the way he gets protective over you right after a major strife and cleans your wounds with a close precision.

Eventually you cry yourself to sleep, right there on the living room floor, the last thought going through your head is a sentance that breaks your heart.

He has to be drunk to touch you.

You wake up the next morning in your own bed, the sheets tucked up around you, your lips tasting of sleep and the echo of whiskey.


End file.
